


Febrile + Critical + Recovery

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: (so many cuddles you might actually cringe... i warned you), Blood, Cairo Day 2020 (MacGyver TV 2016), Cairo Day Five: In Sickness and In Health, Fever, Gen, Gratuitous Temperature Taking, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Restraints, Parental Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), Platonic Cuddling, Riley Bozer and Desi all make appearances but it's really the Mac and Jack show here, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23698258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Mac's family will always take care of him, in sickness and in health.Cairo Day Five: "in sickness and in health"
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 102
Kudos: 174





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little warning with the current events of the world, Mac is one sick puppy in this. No it's not the covid and he's not contagious or in quarantine but I did feel like I should offer a warning. There were moments while writing this that just hit differently than it would have a few month ago. 
> 
> Anyway, stay safe and healthy my friends. Thanks for coming along for the ride!

Mac pries heavy eyelids open, waking slowly. Uncomfortably. Something is wrong. The sheets beneath him are soaked. His t-shirt clings to the damp skin of his chest and back. With a groan, he rolls onto his back. Shivering as his neck comes into contact with his sweat-drenched pillow. He pushes damp hair back, away from his warm forehead, wondering if the air conditioner went out when he was sleeping. 

He flings aside the sheets and shivers again. Cool air caressing his flushed skin. A moment later the AC clicks on. He can’t blame this on an unseasonably warm night. 

He reaches over, snapping on the light on his nightstand. His eyes slam shut with a flinch when it bathes the room a warm glow. One hand covers his eyes against the onslaught. Pressing hard against the pressure building behind his eyes. 

A migraine then. 

A bad one if he’s feeling feverish because of it. 

He contemplates rolling over to the dry side of the bed and trying to go back to sleep. He’s exhausted enough that he’s almost dozing again already but a shiver sends an ache through his skull. 

Dry t-shirt. Meds. Water, if he can stomach it. Then sleep this off. 

He pries open one eye, carefully turning his head toward the clock on the table. Just before midnight. He might have caught this migraine early enough that it won’t impact him tomorrow. 

Pushing himself upright he pauses for a moment, letting the vertigo roll over him and swallowing back nausea. Getting both of those symptoms under control before he attempts standing. His legs ache, deep and throbbing pain in his knees and quads, and he almost buckles, steadying himself against his bed. 

“Getting old,” he mumbles. Chasing a suspected terrorist for five blocks shouldn’t leave him feeling this exhausted and achy. “Sorry, Jack.” Mentally apologizing for all the times he’s teased his partner when an unexpected sprint caused a muscle to tweak in protest. He makes a note about making sure he stretches even after a short chase from now on. Jack’s going to enjoy teasing him about this. 

Stumbling to the bathroom, he pulls his sodden shirt over his head and tosses it in the approximate direction of the hamper, shivering again in the cool air. 

He stalls at the doorway of the bathroom, fumble for the light switch with closed eyes. He lurches to the vanity, gripping the edge of the counter. Slow and steady breaths, he feels like he’s run a marathon in this short jaunt from his bed, and trying to quell the feeling of nausea that chokes him. When he’s reasonably sure he won’t lose whatever remnants of dinner remain in his stomach he reaches for the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.

Tired eyes with dark smudges stare back at him before he pulls the split-mirror cabinet open. His migraine meds are front and center. He doesn’t need them often, but when he does he can’t waste even a second rummaging through the small cabinet to find them. Eyes usually too blurry and sensitive to aid his search. 

Shaking a pill from the bottle he swallows it quickly. He cups his hands under the faucet and chases the pill down. Leaning over the sink and breathing deeply, trying to convince his stomach to accept it. After a moment, his belly settles. He splashes his face, flinching at the cold water against his skin.

As he reaches up to close the cabinet, a crisp box sitting on the ledge catches his attention. It hasn’t been opened since the day Jack bought it, making Mac promise that he wouldn’t dismantle it for parts. 

A moment of hesitation, his hand hovers in the air then closes around the box. He tears open the seal, dumping the tympanic thermometer into his hand. The click of a button and a high pitched beep lets him know the device is ready for use. With a frown, he sticks the probe inside his ear and waits. Makes a face at himself in the mirror. 

“This is dumb.”

Another longer, higher-pitched squeak and he removes the thermometer. He thinks about just ignoring the reading and heading to bed, but curiosity gets the better of him. 

101.9

That’s unexpected.

He felt tired all day. Fatigued. He called it an early night, hoping to catch up on sleep. Begging off dinner with Jack, which had put the older man on high alert, reaching out and placing the back of his hand against Mac’s forehead, only half-joking. He didn’t feel feverish then or when he went to bed. 

He roots through the medicine cabinet again, finding some acetaminophen for his fever and swallowing that down too. He makes a pit stop on his staggering return to his bed. Searching through the dresser drawer he finds a two size too big, extra soft and well-loved Bon Jovi tour t-shirt that he swiped from Jack and yanks it over his head, shuddering when the room temperature material touches his skin. Goosebumps rising on his arms. Wobbling on shaky, achy legs, he finishes his journey across the room. Standing there next to his rumpled bed for a minute, he contemplates and then decides against an attempt at changing the sheets. 

The clock shows it’s after midnight now. His phone plugged in on the nightstand. He considers sending Jack a text, his partner is probably about to head to bed himself, to let him know that he might not be feeling up for work tomorrow. That seems premature, sending up a ‘mayday’ signal when a good night's sleep might take care of this. 

All he’ll succeed in doing is making sure neither of them gets any sleep tonight. He’ll be up for another hour answering Jack’s increasingly worried questions And even more likely, he’ll win himself an additional roommate for the night. A mother henning, temperature-taking, paranoid about his health, roommate. 

He tumbles into his bed, biting back a cry as the motion sends another jarring pain through his joints. Curling into himself, he tries to resist pulling the blankets up over his shoulders. Intellectually, he knows burrowing is only going to keep him overheated and prevent his fever from lowering, but the shivers that wrack his body overrule the logical part of his brain. He wraps himself tightly, scratches at his chest and drifts off into a restless sleep with twisted blankets. 

When sunbeams break through the curtain, chasing each other through his room, his head is thick and pounding. The pressure makes him feel like his eyeballs are going to pop out of their sockets. 

And he is so, so cold. 

The worry that he refused to give voice to last night creeping into his mind. This isn’t a migraine. 

He pushes himself into a sitting position and a broken cry escapes his lips. His joints throbbing. He can’t avoid making that phone call now. 

Getting to his feet feels more like he summited a mountain than just making it to a standing position. He sways dangerously before getting his legs under him.

He blindly rummages through his closet, fingers closing on a familiar oversized sweatshirt, pulling it over his head as he makes his way from his bedroom. If he’s going to make this call, he can’t stay in bed. He has to get up, look at least, alive. Jack is already going to be in full panic mode when Mac calls him asking for a ride to the doctor, if he doesn’t want a Flight for Life helicopter landing on his deck he needs to look a little less distressed. A little less like he feels like he’s dying. 

But who is he kidding? No matter how he tries to allay Jack’s fears, this is going to raise alarm bells for sure. So, he gives in, partially, to his misery and snags a blanket from his bed, the weight of it putting him off balance and he staggers down the hallway. 

In the kitchen, he pours himself a glass of juice and sits heavily on the bar stool at the island. He plays with the phone in his hand for a moment before pressing send.

* * *

Jack pretends to hem and haw over his choices. “Let me have four poppy seed, four onion and four of the blueberry. And you guys still offering the baker’s dozen?”

“People would probably riot if we stopped,” the college-aged kid behind the counter replies as he packages up the order, separating the fruity and mild bagels from the strong scent of the onion ones. 

“Then I’ll try one of those sriracha bagels.”

“So, same order as last week?” 

Jack frowns good-naturedly at the snark but doesn’t reply, distracted by the buzzing of his phone. He absently hands over exact change, while dropping a few bills in the tip jar- don’t tell Matty or Desi, but he hits the bagel shop more often than he should, it’s Mac’s favorite, therefore, making it worth the risk- as he pulls out his phone, expecting a message from Matty telling him to get his ass to the War Room asap. 

Except that Mac’s name is on the screen. And it’s a phone call, not a text. He’s not late enough that Mac should be worried. And it’s Wednesday. Bagel Day.

“Hey buddy, you hungry? I got poppy and onion for you. Should be swinging into your driveway in about fifteen minutes.” Jack pushes through the front door, nodding a greeting at a familiar young mom and her daughter as he steps out into the warm California sunshine. It’s a top off on the GTO kind of day. 

“I-- uh,” Mac grunts. “I think I’m sick, Jack. I don’t think I’m up for work today.”

“You’re sick?” Jack repeats dumbly. His stomach drops. “Sick enough that you are admitting that you’re sick and need to stay home?” He tosses the bag into the passenger seat and climbs into the car. 

“Yeah, I-- I might need to go get checked out.”

Jack peels out of the parking lot with a squeal. “You need me to call an ambulance?”

“No,” Mac says decisively. “But my head hurts and I don’t think I can drive. I can get an Uber.”

“Shut up, don’t be dumb. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Thought you said fifteen?” Jack can hear the smile in his voice that cuts off painfully. 

“That was before you said you needed a doctor. Just get ready to go, I’ll be there.”

“Be careful, don’t speed.”

“You going to pass out? Do you need to stay on the line with me?”

“No, I’m going to try to find my shoes.”

“Then I’m going to hang up and tell Matty what’s going on and have her notify Medical.” 

He realizes there were probably about a dozen more questions he should have asked when he tries to brief Matty on the situation. 

“I don’t know, Matty. He’s sick enough that he’s asking to see a doctor. I didn’t stop to play twenty questions.” He takes the next turn on two wheels. 

“Jack, they’ll be ready for him, but be careful. They don’t need two patients coming in hot.” 

“You forget, I’m the best AED and EVOC driver in the Five Eyes.”

“And you know, they don’t actually have a way to rank that, right?”

Jack spins the wheel, the GTO rocks to a halt in the driveway. He’s halfway up the walk before the engine fully finishes purring. He slows to a jog as he reaches the door, surveying and on alert. And he doesn’t want to startle the kid by bursting through metaphorical guns blazing. 

“Mac? Where you at, buddy?” 

“Kitchen.” His head rests on a closed fist, elbow propped up against the counter, wearing an old Go Army sweatshirt, one of Jack's by the looks of it, with the hood pulled up over his head. Tufts of blond hair poking out in disarray. A blanket draped around his shoulder and pooling in his lap. 

Jack presses the back of his hand against Mac’s forehead while the other rests against Mac’s cheek. “You’ve got a pretty decent fever running here.”

Mac nods. 

“You check it?” Dropping his hand to Mac’s neck, Jack frowns as he counts his pulse. 

“Last night. Feels worse now.” 

“Can you walk?”

Mac doesn’t answer, just stands and slowly heads for the door. 

“We need a bucket or something?”

Mac shakes his head. “I won’t puke in your car.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jack keeps a hand on Mac’s back, steadying him and for comfort. 

Mac’s gait stutters when they make it outside, flinching against the onslaught of the rising sun.

“Headache,” he mumbles. 

Jack pulls off his yellow aviators.

“Incoming,” he warns, before slipping the glasses over Mac’s closed eyes. “I’ll get you settled and then get the top back up. Two shakes.” He smiles at Mac’s bemused frown. It’s something his Nana used to say. 

He’s not sure exactly how long two shakes of a lamb's tail would actually take. Probably just a few seconds, depending on the lamb, making it an inconsistent and inaccurate way to measure time. He's sure that’s what Mac is thinking, deciphering. And the count is probably closer to five or six shakes before the top is up and they are back on the road. Mac curls miserable against the cool window and Jack’s hand resting on his shoulder. 

* * *

Jack stands next to the padded exam bed. His place, as always, at Mac’s side.

“I’m half worried you’re gonna tumble off of there,” he teases, brushing a hand through Mac’s hair. The kid's arms were shaking so badly when he tried to lift himself that Jack gave him a boost to sit on the table. 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Mac pushes the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I was fine when I went to bed last night.”

Jack snorts, helping Mac pull the sweatshirt over his head at Reese’s request. “Should have known then that you weren’t feeling one hundred percent.”

“I was tired but nothing like this,” Mac mumbles through the fabric twisting around his face. “Stop pulling, Jack. I can do it.” His head pops free, blond hair askew. “We’ve been busy. Woke up around midnight with a migraine and a fever. Took my meds and went back to sleep.”

“What was your temperature?” Reese asks.

Mac glances at Jack, then shakes his head before answering. “101.9. I had some Tylenol then too.”

“Put this under your tongue,” Reese instructs, directing Mac to hold the probe in place while she obtains his blood pressure and pulse. 

Jack frowns, eyes darting from the inflating BP cuff to Mac’s pale face with flushed cheeks. 

“One hundred two point three,” Reese reads the thermometer after it beeps, discarding the probe cover with a flick of the release switch, sending it sailing across the room and into the garbage. Her aim used to impress Jack a little. “Any shortness of breath? Dizziness? Nausea, vomiting or diarrhea?” She runs through a series of assessment questions.

“Just the fever, headache, and general achiness,” Mac denies any other symptoms.

Reese directs him to take some deep breaths as she presses her stethoscope against his back, keeping her free hand on his shoulder, the opposite one from where Jack’s hand has taken up residence.

“Lungs are clear,” she says as Dr. McClain enters the exam room and relays the rest of her assessment. She steps over to the counter on the other side of the room, gathering supplies for a lab draw.

“Have you had any unreported injuries lately, Mac?” McClain asks, cleaning his hands as he steps behind Mac, prodding hands palpate his neck and the lymph nodes under his jaw. “Any old injuries giving you problems?” 

Mac denies the question as Reese quickly ties a tourniquet around his bicep, cleaning the skin in the crook of his elbow and proceeds to efficiently draw his blood. Collecting what she needs she starts to untie the tourniquet and stops. She glances up, catching McClain’s eye. He leans over, looking at Mac’s arm. 

Jack observes the unspoken communication. Two partners who have worked together for years, reading each other's minds, sensing the other's thoughts. “What do you see?”

“Not sure yet. Draw an assay,” McClain moves to the counter and pulls another vacutainer, handing it to Reese. He moves to stand in front of Mac, taking his patient’s face in his hands. “Let me see your eyes. Sunny side up.” 

Reese wraps a blood pressure cuff around Mac’s bicep again, inflating it and leaving it sit tight against his skin. 

“Alright, what about bug bites? Rashes? Unexplained bruises?” McClain asks.

“Not that I…” Mac shrugs. 

“I’m going to lift your shirt.” The doctor looks at his chest while Reese moves behind Mac, examining his back. “How long have you had this rash on your chest?” 

Mac looks down in confusion.

“We showered at the Phoenix yesterday when we got back,” Jack says, moving in to take a look. “I didn’t see that then. What’s going on, Doc?” 

Reese releases the blood pressure cuff and brushes her glove clad fingers against his skin. “Greater than twenty petechiae per square inch.”

“Where have you guys been in the last two weeks.”

“Where haven’t we been?” Jack sighs. “Ecuador, Cape Town, Sri Lanka.”

“The blood assay will confirm but based on your symptoms, the high fever, rash, the joint pain and a positive tourniquet test, combined with your recent travel, Mac, I think you have Dengue Fever.”

“Wait, like hemorrhagic fever? Like bleeding from his eyeballs?” Jack takes a step closer to Mac, wants to shove Mac behind him. Hold him closer. Protect him. 

“Not necessarily. Most cases, especially in adults, don’t have hemorrhaging.”

“And when is Mac most cases?”

“Actually, fairly often despite the trouble you guys end up in,” McClain interrupts. “Are you having any symptoms, Jack? You were in all the same places.”

Mac looks up in concern, meeting Jack’s eyes with a worried frown. 

“Come on, sit down for a second,” Reese takes Jack’s arm and guides him into a chair as he protests that he's feeling fine. She works on obtaining a set of vital signs and checking him over for a rash. “Headache, fever, and rash are the Dengue triad.”

“No, Mac, stay here,” McClain orders, putting a firm hand against Mac’s chest. 

“Is it contagious?”

“It’s vector-borne.”

“The President of Ecuador with the bad ticker?” Jack taps a finger lightly against his chest. 

“That was Hector Leon, Jack,” Mac shakes his head. Then grips the edge of the table when the motion makes him dizzy. “That means it’s transmitted by something like a mosquito, not from person to person or through the air.” 

“No fever. No rash,” Reese reports, and Jack leaps up moving back to his place at Mac’s side.

“Anyone else on your team traveling with you over the last two weeks?” McClain asks.

"Riley and Bozer,” Mac shivers. “Desi too. They’re all away on a mission right now.” 

“We’ll get in touch with them,” McClain nods at Reese who slips from the exam room to do just that, “and your ex-fil team, let them know what to watch for and bring them in for check-ups when they get back just to be sure.” 

“So what do we do? What are we looking at here, doc?” 

“The lab will run his blood. We’ll know in about six hours for sure if this is Dengue Fever. Around that time, we’ll also draw some more blood to monitor your hemoglobin and hematocrit. Just because most cases don’t have hemorrhaging doesn’t mean it’s not a risk.”

“Dengue can have three different phases. Febrile, critical and recovery. Over the next few hours, we’ll keep an eye on your fever, urine output and your ability to keep food and fluid down. If you can and your vital signs remain stable, we might be able to let you go home.”

Mac nods, a hopeful look on his face.

Jack doesn’t share his optimism. “Home?”

“There’s no reason to make him stay here right now.”

“What about, I don’t know the fact that he might start bleeding from all the holes in his body at once?”

“This isn’t a horror movie, and that’s not exactly how this disease works. With close monitoring, we would hopefully have some warning.”

“Isn’t that what they say about every pandemic? That’s not how this works until all of a sudden, oops it does and now we got zombies running around sucking everyone’s blood.”

“Zombies want brains. Vampires want blood,” Mac teases.

“And what happens if this is something totally new and we got blood-sucking zombie vampires who turn into mosquitoes instead of bats? Cross-contamination or something?” 

“Mac would be a lot more comfortable at home in his own bed. His own pajamas and couch. Better food,” McClain says slowly. “It’s very common to manage dengue fever as an outpatient with close follow up. He’s healthy and stable. Unless something changes we’re only going to be treating his symptoms. It would be a shame to make him hang out here for that, but if you aren’t comfortable caring for him, Jack…” 

“No, no, I didn’t say that,” Jack interrupts with a glare. “I know what you’re doing, trying to play me like a fiddle. Using all the buzzwords like Mac and comfortable and knowing I can’t resist them. I don’t appreciate it. If you say he can go home, of course, I’m gonna keep an eye on him. Tell me what I need to do.”

“Push fluids. Take his temperature at least every four hours. It’s not uncommon to have temperatures as high as one hundred four.”

Jack scrubs a hand over his face. “I do not like this,” he mutters then waves his hand for McClain to continue. “No, no, go on. Give it to me straight, doc.”

Dr. McClain watches Jack for a minute, waiting for him to get his anxious thoughts under control before he continues with his instructions. “Only acetaminophen for the fever. No aspirin, no ibuprofen because that can increase his bleeding risk. Tepid baths. Lukewarm water, not cold. And Mac,” McClain pauses making sure that he has his patient’s full attention. “You need to keep eating and drinking. Dehydration is a very real threat, especially with these high fevers. You need to pay attention to how much urine you're making. If you go longer than six hours between bathroom trips, or your mouth and eyes are dry, you aren't getting enough hydration and we'll have to admit you."

“Okay then, Mac, you’ve got one job. Keep drinking.” 

“I’ll arrange for the Mobile Medical Team to be at your house every eight hours.”

Mac starts to protest, ignoring Jack’s scowl.

“They can help monitor your fever and hydration status, and draw blood. I want to see your hemoglobin and hematocrit levels every eight hours.”

“For bleeding?” Jack asks.

“I do want to make sure it doesn’t drop from bleeding. It can be one of the first indications of hemorrhaging. If it starts rising, it can warn us that Mac is going into shock.” McClain taps Mac’s arm where Reese performed the tourniquet test, the evidence of mild bleeding from fragile capillaries still evident on his skin. “Leaky capillaries can cause fluid to shift from the bloodstream to the area between your cells. A rising hematocrit level will tell us if that’s happening. Your body can’t use it there. It’s not circulating with your blood so that can cause very low blood pressures and respiratory distress.” 

“Okay, the Mutant Med-inja Turtles every eight hours. Fever checks and tylenol in between. Is there… is there anything else,” Jack asks warily. 

“Remember how I said the illness came in phases?”

“That wasn’t all of them?” Jack groans. 

“After several days, Mac, your fever is going to spontaneously break, back to normal. It’s called defervescence. And you’re going to feel really pretty good. This is the danger time.”

“You hear this Mac? It’s a testament to how worried I am about ya that I’m not doing my best Kenny Loggins impression right now.” 

“You mean danger zone,” Mac mumbles. "Not time."

“Word association.” 

McClain shakes his head. “The critical phase begins within forty-eight hours of the fever breaking. Or some patients skip this phase altogether and move right into recovery.”

“I’d like to sign us up for the second one,” Jack says.

“Unfortunately, we have no way to predict which way this will go. So, even though you might feel completely recovered during that day or two we’re still going to be watching you very closely. The risk for complications is extremely high. If you have any vomiting, abdominal pain, signs of bleeding like dark stool or vomit that looks like coffee grounds this is an emergency. If you are going to have hemorrhaging, it’s going to be during this time."

"Right, emergency," Jack repeats back everything McClain just told him. Despite their penchant for teasing and silly banter, Jack never jokes about Mac's wellbeing.

“I know I threw a lot at you right now.”

“Just the biology lesson from hell.” 

"We’ll go over this again before you leave,” Doctor McClain promises before he leaves the small room. “For now, get some rest.”

Jack rubs his forehead, processing the information before turning to look at Mac. He grins at his partner and pats the semi-reclined head of the bed. 

“You heard the doc,” he says as he helps Mac settle in, stroking Mac’s hair. “You get some rest and keep drinking and in a couple more hours and we can head for home.” 

"I know I'm asking a lot from you, Jack."

"Pfft. You once, literally, made me sit and watch a documentary about how paint dries. That was harder than watching actual paint. This is nothing."


	2. Chapter 2

“You okay, bud?” Jack asks as he shuts the front door, watching as Mac pauses in the hallway.

His patient nods.

“Want to eat something?”

Mac wrinkles his nose. “No.”

“Okay, but you heard the doc, you gotta drink something,” Jack says, putting his hands on Mac’s shoulders and gently guiding him into the kitchen. He settles Mac into the chair he’d collected him from earlier, picking up the blanket they’d left behind and tucking it around Mac. Giving his shoulders a satisfied pat, he turns rummaging through the refrigerator. “Cranberry juice? That’s got some nutritional value right?”

Mac’s chin rests on arms folded along the counter, watching Jack move about the room.

“Looks like we’ll need to make a grocery run. We’ll get that cranberry pomegranate stuff you like. You think that natural one you like so much is okay, or do you need the sugared up one? Extra calories for fighting this off. I’ll call Reese. Gatorade, Pedialyte. Soup is probably good, but I bet Bozer would make that for us if we ask real nicely. Or if he sees you sitting here looking miserable.” Jack places the glass of juice on the counter next to Mac. “Go on, drink up.”

The corner of Mac’s mouth curls up at Jack as he reaches for the glass, taking a tentative sip. Then another.

Jack smiles approvingly as Mac slowly downs half the glass.

“There ya go.” He tries, he really tries not to stand there staring at Mac, watching him drink. He pauses his slow survey of the kitchen every few steps, nodding approvingly. Taking stock of their supplies and stopping to beam like a proud father at his son’s newest accomplishment. 

“I can make that special chicken soup that my momma used to make. You remember, the one she made after you decided to go spelunking down that old well?” 

“I didn’t--”

“But it’s not the same, is it? I know you didn’t complain last year when you had the flu real bad, but momma’s is better’n mine.” Jack rubs the back of his neck. 

Mac hums thoughtfully. 

“Always comes out too salty when I make it.”

“No, it’s fine.”

”If I tell her you’re feelin’ poorly she might overnight you a whole kettle.” He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through his texts. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Nah, it’ll make her day. Not that you’re feeling bad. She might just try to bring the soup out here herself. But that she can do something to make you feel a little bit better. Let ya know that she loves ya.” 

Mac feels his eyelids start to prickle and sets the cup back down with a clunk. Not sure if he can swallow around the lump in his throat. 

“Think you can finish that up for me?” Jack encourages, pushing the cup a little closer to Mac.

“No, I just want to go to bed.”

“Doc said push fluids. Lots of fluids.”

“I’ve been drinking for the last six hours. You kept handing me full cups of water and juice the whole time I was in medical. I just want to lay down.”

“Okay, we’ll bring it with you,” Jack replies as a compromise and grabs another glass, filling it with water. “Keep it on your nightstand.” He opens and closes a few cupboards, snagging a box of saltine crackers. “And something to nosh on.”

Mac drags his blanket with him down the hall, and Jack can’t help but feel like he’s getting a glimpse into who toddler Mac might have been. Straggling down the hall, tugging on the arm of a beloved stuffed animal or a favorite blanket towed along behind him. 

“Looks like you had kind of a rough night,” Jack observes as they walk into Mac’s bedroom. The blankets on his bed still mussed from the night before. “Finally kicking those Army bed-making habits, huh? Now maybe you won't feel the need to try to make the beds in our hotel rooms.

“I don’t make the beds, I just try to be courteous and not leave the blankets on the floor.”

“Well, hold on, don’t hop in there quite yet, let me change those sheets.”

“I’m probably going to be sweating again,” Mac shrugs.

“Sure, but we’ll start fresh from here,” Jack says, quickly stripping the linen from the bed. “Go brush your teeth or something.” He lightly shoves Mac in the direction of the bathroom. “Make sure you’re making urine,” he yells through the closed bathroom door. Receiving no response, he walks over and taps on the door. “Mac?”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“You gotta say something if it looks... weird in any way.” 

Mac grumbles in disgust and Jack can’t help but snicker as he finishes making the bed. He doesn’t bother with hospital or army corners, draping the top sheet over the mattress then folding it back. 

A moment later Mac reappears.

“All good, hoss?” 

“We’re good.”

“Okay, I trust you,” Jack steers him toward the bed. “I think you should probably take that sweatshirt off.”

“Yeah,” Mac sighs, grabbing the neck of the shirt and pulling it over his head. “I’m just so cold.” He shivers lightly.

“We’ll get you tucked in. Not too snug, but comfortable.”

Mac shivers again as he slides into the bed, the fresh, crisp sheets cool against overheated skin. His eyes slide closed; the last few hours left him exhausted. 

“Did you have a wooby when you were a kid?”

Mac raises an eyebrow as Jack. “A what?”

“A wooby? A lovey? Like I had my Woof-woof. Stuffed dog with floppy silky ears and missing all the stuffin’ from his middle cause I used to drag him around in the crook of my arm.” Jack sits on the edge of Mac’s bed, holding up one arm, demonstrating how he would hold onto his Woof-woof before reaching out and tugging the blankets up around Mac’s shoulders. “My cousin Nick had his Bow-wow. He lost an ear.”

“Cousin Nick?”

“No, Bow-wow. Used to drag him around by one ear. Pretty sure he lost an eye at one point too. Still talking about Bow-wow.”

“So, like a transitional comfort object?” Mac shrugs, dislodging the blanket and Jack tucks him back in again. “To ease separation anxiety?”

“Just feels like I should be tucking you in with a teddy bear or a blanket or something.”

A wide yawn cracks Mac’s jaw. “I… I think I had a stuffed dog. Josie. I don’t know what happened to her. But I think the stuffing was missing from her middle too.” 

Jack carefully brushes blond hair back from Mac’s warm forehead. He can feel Mac’s breathing deepen. Carefully, he stands and moves into the bathroom. 

“Hold still a second,” Jack whispers when he returns. There’s a beep and he tugs on the shell of Mac’s ear, inserting the thermometer. 

“They took my temperature before we left,” Mac murmurs, already half asleep. 

“Need a baseline for home. Gotta check it every four hours.” The probe beeps again and Jack pulls it away, gently patting Mac’s shoulder. “Okay, go to sleep, pal.” 

Jack putters through the house, drawn back to Mac’s bedroom every few minutes to look in on the slumbering kid. The next time Mac wakes up he’s going to drag the recliner from the living room into his bedroom so he has somewhere more comfortable than a desk chair to perch. Mac will probably protest but he can’t really do anything to stop Jack at the moment. 

He barely refrains from retucking the blankets or stroking Mac's hair each time he wanders through. But he can only stop himself about two out of three trips through the room. The fever leaves him restless.

He calls his mom. She talks him through her chicken soup recipe and he promises as he chops carrots and celery, to keep her updated on Mac’s progress. Or at least as much as he's able. As far as she's concerned he's come down with a bad case of the flu, which is worrisome enough for her. She’s taken to referring to him as her grandson with her book club and Zumba class. It’s the most succinct and truly the most accurate description of Mac’s place in her life. In his too. 

Only Mac hasn't yet had the opportunity to hear her say this. Even though she adopted him on sight the first time Jack brought him home.

He can’t wait to bring Mac home to the ranch again. Maybe he’ll conspire to arrive just as the book club is breaking up. She’ll exclaim delightedly that her son arrived for a visit and brought her grandbaby for her to fuss and fawn over, calling them over to her friends and bragging on Mac. They’ll comment on how handsome and smart her grandson is. 

Mac will blush and stammer and then with a glance at Jack, will swallow that all down and be delightfully charming. A gracious gentleman. And quietly threaten, with just his eyes, to pay Jack back later, which he’ll never do. 

And that shy smile won’t leave his lips the whole time they’re visiting. Mac has no defenses against being loved. 

The soup bubbles on the stovetop. Jack swallows a spoonful and shakes his head. “Still too salty.”

He’s surprised when his phone chimes the first of the four-hour checks. He ladles up a bowl of soup, letting it cool for a few minutes before he heads down the hallway and eases his way into Mac’s bedroom. The kid hidden under a pile of blankets, only a shock of blond hair visible on his pillow. 

Jack is half-tempted to let him keep sleeping. He puts the soup and the fresh glass of water on the nightstand, noting that neither cup from earlier has been touched. He sits on the edge of the bed and gently tugs the blanket away from Mac’s ear. 

“Hey, kiddo, just taking your temperature,” Jack warns so he doesn’t startle the kid when he slides the probe into his ear. Mac’s response is an intelligible mumble. His cheek is flushed pink. And his temperature too high to forgo a dose of tylenol and fluids. “Gotta wake up for me a little. I need you to drink something, Mac.” Jack ruffles his hair then gives his shoulder a nudge. 

“I’m awake.”

“Good. Just need you a little more awake so you can drink something. Just for a minute or two.”

Mac stretches and winces as the motion awakens the pain in his legs and back. His arms shake with the exertion of scooting himself to sit up and lean against the headboard. 

Snagging the bottle from the nightstand, Jack shakes two oblong pills into his palm and hands him a juice chaser. He waits until Mac has swallowed several gulps of juice before reaching for the bowl of soup, giving it a stir.

“You’re not going to try to feed me, are you?”

“Maybe I’ll just hold the bowl?"

Mac holds out his hands, which Jack tries to ignore, until Mac raises his eyebrow.

"Oh, alright, but I want you eating that, not wearing it. Soup is not the kind of snack you munch on in bed," Jack says, reluctantly passing him the dish.

Mac cups his hands around the bowl, appreciating the warmth and the steam against his face. "Don't you have something else to do? Instead of sitting there watching me eat."

"I could move your recliner in here," Jack says with a shrug.

"Why?"

"I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you."

"I don't think that means constantly."

Jack shrugs again, rising from the bed. "Might as well do it now. Then I won't wake you with all my huffing and puffing. Did you go into the store and ask for the heaviest chair they have?" Jack grumbles as he moves down the hallway.

Mac tucks into the dish eagerly, enjoying the savory warmth, chuckling at Jack’s furniture moving antics. 

“Oof. I’m gonna break something luggin’ this chair around.” The chair thumps against the door jamb, barely fitting.

“No one told you to move it,” Mac stirs the soup. After a few more spoonfuls he slows, losing his momentum and his poor appetite already sated. 

“Think you can do a few more bites?” Jack prompts. 

Mac dutifully lifts the spoon to his lips. His eyes feel heavy and he blinks owlishly. 

“Alright,” Jack rescues the bowl from Mac’s hands, the siren call of sleep is too much. “Good boy. Guess that’ll have to be enough for now.”

Jack wrings out a cool washcloth in the sink, wiping down Mac's face and neck as he dozes, watching for any signs of distress or restlessness. Satisfied that Mac is sleeping peacefully, he curls into the recliner and allows himself a chance to rest.

* * *

The room is empty when Mac wakes. The recliner where he knows Jack spent the night because he was by his side too quickly every time he roused from sleep to be anywhere else in the house, is vacant too. 

With immense effort, that leaves him panting and his heart racing, Mac throws his legs over the edge, sitting on the side of the bed. He lost a sock at some point in the middle of the night, but the thought of hunting for it makes his head pound. He’s sure, in the last several years he’s had moments when he’s felt worse than this, but at the moment, it’s difficult to raise those occasions in his memory. 

He does know that in each and every one of those awful moments, Jack was there. And the idea of Jack being all the way down the hall, away from him, is distressing. So, Mac forces himself from his bed and stumbles his way into the kitchen, following the sounds and smell of Jack cooking breakfast. 

Jack’s head and shoulders are in the fridge, bopping to a tune that’s in his head. He spins around on sock clad feet, arms loaded with ingredients, and grins when he spots Mac and his bedhead. 

“Hey, buddy, when’d you wake up?”

“Few minutes ago,” Mac collapses into the bar stool at the counter. Head resting on his fist.

“Think you want to try some breakfast?” 

“Can I have some coffee?”

Jack’s face screws up in concentration, weighing the pros and cons. The fluid value versus the diuretic and rousing properties of caffeine. “Maybe a small cup? But you have to eat something too. I thought maybe my famous omelets with all the fixings?”

Mac remains unconvinced, but capitulates when he sees Jack’s hopeful look, accepting a single scrambled egg, no fixings and a piece of toast. As he places the dish in front of Mac, Jack smooths a hand through his cowlick, cradling Mac’s head against his chest for a moment. Jack ducks his head so that his cheek is against Mac’s forehead.

“Are you taking my temperature?” 

Jack shrugs. “Getting in a little comforting hug, if it has the added benefit of allowing me to check you over, well…”

“That’s not very accurate,” he grumbles, pushing away, determined to tuck into his eggs with gusto and help convince Jack that he’s fine, but two bites in the impetus fades. His fork scrapes against the plate. Scooting the eggs over to one side. A moment later they move back toward the opposite side. He can feel Jack watching him, refraining from commenting. 

He reaches for the glass of orange juice and gulps it down knowing it will ease some of Jack’s anxieties. And he’s surprised by how good it feels in his parched throat. 

“You didn’t eat much,” Jack finally allows himself to comment when Mac pushes the plate away. “Barely half.”

“I ate five-eighths of the toast.”

“Still ate less than my two year old nephew.”

“Sixteen ounces of juice.”

“Only need to do that about a dozen more times today. Oh, speaking of a dozen, I still have the bagels. Want to try that?”

“I want to take a shower.”

Jack hums. “You up for standing that long? You were bobbing and weaving like a losing MMA fighter on your way in here.”

“I feel gross.”

“What about a bath?”

“That’s not the same.” Mac is determined not to be dissuaded. He’s been envisioning the healing properties of the warm water running over him since he woke up and anything less will be a disappointment. 

With a sigh that tells Mac that he won, Jack scurries through the bedroom, collecting a fresh set of clothes as Mac makes his way to the bathroom. He pulls a towel from the linen closet and turns the water on to start warming it.

“Not too hot, dude. You’re already cooking from the inside out. Don’t need to start literally boiling yourself too.”

Mac nods, shooing Jack from the room.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay? Just in case?” The worried look is back. It never left. It never really leaves Jack’s face where Mac is involved. It's just a different worried. 

“I promise I won’t slip and fall in the tub.”

“I will buy you a life alert button if you break that promise, dude.”

Mac gives him a gentle nudge over the threshold and shuts the door in Jack’s face. 

Warm water tumbles from the faucet, pelting his skin and he’s grateful he listened to Jack and invested in a high-quality showerhead a few years ago instead of relying on the one he cobbled together when he got back from the army. The water pounds on his stiff muscles and caresses his aching back. He stands there for a minute letting the water ease his tension.

He shivers and reaches for the handle to crank the heat. Sighing and ducking his head under the warming spray. Water drizzling through his hair and dripping down his back. He shivers again and turns the handle further. 

He’s not as liberal with the soap as usual. A wave of dizziness crashes over him as he tries to wash his legs and the bar squirts out of his hands and clatters to the floor.

A second later there’s a rap on the door. “Mac? You okay?”

“Fine,” he shouts back. A forlorn glance at the white sudsy bar mocking him on the shower floor and he gives up. If he tries reaching for it, he’s going to make a rattling descent to the floor also and he’s not making Jack haul him out of the shower. 

His strength flees in an instant. One second he’s strong and steady and the next his knees are weak. The shower that he thought was going to feel so good leaves him exhausted. The warmth of the water, hotter than he knows he should have used with his ongoing fever, drained him. He shuts off the water, reaching for a towel. Stumbling as he steps out of the shower stall. 

He wraps one around his waist and drapes the other towel across his shoulders, using the end to wipe droplets from his face. His legs are shaking. He closes the lid of the toilet and sits down heavily. Breathing labored from exertion. 

Sucking in slow breaths, he tries to calm his racing heart. He feels like he’s on mile twenty-five of a marathon he didn’t train for, chest heaving. He shivers, pulling the damp towels tighter around him in the rapidly cooling bathroom. He uses the sink for leverage but his legs tremble too much when he tries to stand. 

Biting his lip, he calls Jack. 

The door opens immediately- he must have been waiting right outside- brown eyes furrowed with concern. 

Steam leaks out the door, and Mac thought the room was cold before. 

“Guess it was a little too much for me.”

Jack grabs another towel, throwing it over Mac’s head, shaking the excess water from his hair. The scritching motion of Jack’s fingers against his scalp is soothing and Mac feels his eyes closing.

A finger taps against his cheek. “Don’t go to sleep on me just yet,” Jack instructs as he helps Mac towel dry. Squatting, he feeds Mac’s feet through the legs of a fresh pair of sweatpants. “Up on three.” Jack warns before helping him to stand, balances him as he tugs the sweats into position. 

A moment later, Jack scoops him up.

He’s too surprised and frankly too exhausted to protest Jack carrying him to bed.

He’s half expecting Jack to scold him, but when he looks up Jack’s face is only filled with concern. He settles Mac beneath the blankets and takes his temperature again. Caressing his ear during the eight seconds it takes the probe to get a reading. Gun calloused fingers smoothing his hair behind the shell of his ear and he finds the action strangely comforting. 

“Don’t conk out on me yet. I need you to drink some water. I think that shower was a little too hot,” Jack steadies the drinking glass at his lips and encourages him until the entire thing is empty. 

Another stroke of Mac’s hair and a tug of blankets, Jack turns from the bed, quietly gathering up the dishes from the last days and heading from the room when Mac’s voice stops him 

“Will you stay?”

Jack’s hesitation is less than a millisecond, and that’s only because his hands are loaded down with dishes. Putting them on the dresser by the door, he settles on the other side of the bed, sitting upright against the headboard. His hand on Mac’s head, fingers stroking his forehead between his eyebrows in a rhythmic motion. 

Mac doesn’t remember falling asleep but the next thing he knows the early morning sun is higher in the sky and he’s looking into the eyes of a medic. 

They take his vital signs, listen to his lungs, ask him about his intake and his output and draw blood. It takes a moment of fishing to find his vein, and the medic reminds him to keep drinking. Warning him about the effects of fever and dehydration.

They must have said something as they left because not a minute later Jack is in the doorway of his bedroom with full glasses of water and juice. 

And he follows Mac into the bathroom. 

“Last time you were in here, I had to carry you back. Maybe you should just use a bottle. Save you from using up your energy on walking back and forth. Then it’ll give us a clearer picture of how well you’re hydrating. McClain said the earliest warning signs are decreased and concentrated urine.”

“I’m not using a bottle. And you’re not staying.”

“Since when do you have a shy bladder?”

“I don’t. And that’s not the point,” Mac argues.

“Alright, but don’t flush. I need to see when you’re done.”

Mac does his business and frowns. It’s darker than it should be, even diluted with the toilet water. It’s not too bad. Not yet. He needs to do better at drinking. Maybe set an alarm for the hours in between when Jack and the medics are waking him up. If he sees this, Jack will worry. And probably call McClain and he doesn’t want to fail outpatient treatment. He’s uncomfortable in his own bed, he doesn’t want to try sleeping on the lumpy, plastic-covered mattress at Medical.

“You okay in there, kid? Do you need me to come and fish you out or something?”

“I’m good. Be done in a second.” He takes a deep breath and makes a decision, then reaches out and depresses the flusher. 

“Mac!” The door bursts open.

“Sorry, sorry. Habit.” Mac throws up his hands, trying to look innocent. Then reaches out for the sink when the sudden action causes the room to wobble. 

Jack puts an arm around Mac’s shoulders, steadying him. “Fine, but you do it again, we’re going with the piss bottle.”

Mac ignores the bluster, shuffling back into his room. “I don’t want to go back to bed. Can we watch something?”

Jack makes a quick course correction for the living room. Settling Mac on the couch, he grabs the kid’s favorite living room blanket and pillow for a recovery nap and clicks on the TV.

“What do you want to watch?”

Mac shrugs, the action nearly missed under the blankets. He reaches for Jack, snagging his t-shirt and pulling him to sit on the couch. He knows he’s being clingy and he’ll probably be embarrassed by it when his fever finally breaks, but right now he’s gratefully accepting the comfort Jack provides, resting against his chest.

Mac spends the rest of the day in a fugue between wake and sleep. Waking to accept food and fluid, and he vaguely remembers a trip to the bathroom and another medic poking his arm. In the foggy haze of his memory, he thinks he recalls convincing Jack to let him sit on the patio for five hard-fought-for minutes. The sunlight pierces his retinas and causes his head to throb. But watching the sunset calms him like a healing balm, before Jack rousts him, complaining about not letting the kid get too cold. Mac doesn’t think that will ever happen again. Despite the cool clothes Jack wipes his face with, forcing fluids and acetaminophen, his fever persists. 

To Mac’s surprise, it’s Bozer who wakes Mac for what Jack calls his two AM feeding. 

“We got home a few hours ago. You were asleep.”

“You guys okay?”

“Mission was a success and apparently none of us are as good a mosquito buffet as you are. No one else is sick.”

“That’s good,” Mac’s eyes fall on Jack in the recliner. “He okay?”

“Worrywart? Yeah. I told him I would take this round so he could get some sleep.”

Jack doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch but Mac knows he’s awake, listening. Observing. Assessing Mac, even with his eyes closed.

“If you want him to ever sleep again while you’re sick, you better eat this whole bowl of soup and drink the full glass of juice,” Bozer warns and Mac complies. His hand starts shaking near the end of the bowl, and his eyes grow heavy, but he finishes both.

Bozer beams. “Thanks, man, you just won me twenty bucks.” 

The nebulous passage of time continues. He eats and drinks obediently when Bozer or Jack wakes him. He moves from the bed to the couch and back to bed as his fever waxes and wanes. As his legs ache and his back spasms and he can’t find a comfortable position to rest. 

He fights for another shower and somehow, maybe it’s his fever flushed face, and glazed tearful eyes, he wins. Jack puts a chair in the shower stall and holds him upright, washing sweat from his hair. 

“This isn’t my shampoo,” he mumbles as Jack massages his scalp. It’s a clean scent but missing the citrusy tang of his usual soap. 

“Raided your lab stash. Got the last of the baby shampoo you keep on hand for oil spills. The “no tears” stuff.”

“Your clothes are wet,” Mac’s eyes are closing. Relaxed by the gentle motion of Jack’s hands in his hair. 

“Well, I got a wet t-shirt contest after this so I thought I’d get a jump on it.”

Mac smiles. “Seems like cheating.”

“Well, when you’re more of a silver fox instead of just a fox, you need all the help you can get. Don’t go to sleep just yet, kiddo.” But somehow, Mac thinks he didn’t follow those instructions because he’s warm but dry and there’s still a hand in his hair but it’s smaller, softer.

“That’s because it’s my hand,” Riley’s voice is soft. 

“Why do you have Riley’s hand?”

The hand moves from his hair to his forehead and he shivers. “You’re cold,” he grumbles.

“No, you’re too warm.”

Mac frowns.

“Hold on,” Riley withdraws, there’s a rustling sound and a high pitched beep that he’s come to recognize in his ear. “Oh Mac, why couldn’t you have done this while Jack was watching you? We finally got him to take another nap and you’re going to let your fever spike again?” 

She struggles to sit him up, bracing a pillow behind his back and steadying a glass at his lips. “Keep drinking. Do not make me wake up Jack. And don’t you dare boil your brain while I’m on duty. You wait and do that when Jack is here.”

A cool cloth slides against his cheek and he tries to push it away. It’s too cold.

He shivers and shakes and can’t get warm, burrowing deeper into blankets, searching for Jack’s warmth. 

“Sorry, but you need to cool down a little bit, buddy. Your fever is too high.” 

He... he wants Jack. Jack is always warm.

"I know kiddo, but you need to cool down a little. I'll sit right here with you though."

He thinks he’s in the living room. Skin sticking to the leather couch that crinkles beneath him. When he opens his eyes he’s in his bedroom. Jack coaxes more soup into him. 

“You scared your sister, kiddo,” Jack murmurs.

A confused smile crosses Mac’s face at the timbre of Jack’s voice, the comforting scent, and Jack’s words. He never had a sister, but he likes the idea. Especially if it’s Riley. 

He sleeps through blood draws and assessments and one time he’s almost certain that McClain made a house call, but he falls asleep before he can question it. 

“When I told Jack I’d join your team and help him watch your back I was thinking terrorists. Gun runners. Bomb makers. The occasional obsessive psychopath. I didn’t realize I was going to have to hunt down and terminate every single mosquito in existence.” 

“Hey, kiddo, sit here for a second.” Mac looks around blearily. He thought Desi was here, but it’s Jack’s blurry face in front of him. Holding him steady in the recliner.

“Arms up,” Jack tugs away the t-shirt. Goosebumps rising on damp, sweat soaked skin. Jack swipes a cool washcloth over his back and chest. “You sweated through your sheets. Bozer’s going to change those while I get you a little more comfortable.” 

Mac has a second to shiver as he slides between crisp sheets and then he’s asleep again. 


	3. Chapter 3

He’s awake before he even realizes he was asleep. Instantly on alert. The room is dark. Blackout curtains pulled tightly. The blue glow of Mac’s alarm clock signals that it’s late afternoon, not midnight. So he didn’t miss the MMT’s visit or sleep through Mac’s next temp check. 

A wide yawn splits his face, and he runs a hand against his jaw. The stubble officially crossed over from scruffy shadow into full beard sometime in the last day. With a small smile, he glances over at Mac. The kid’s got a few scraggly hairs on his upper lip, along his jawbone and chin and if he was feeling better Jack would take great delight in teasing him about the fluff on his baby skin.

Jack sits up. In the darkness, he can just make out Mac’s rigid posture beneath the blankets, before a spasm tears through him. He gives a small cry of distress. That's what woke him.

Jack is on his feet and across the room in an instant. 

Mac contorts his body. Twisting and turning. Trying to find some relief from the deep bone pain.

“Hey, kiddo,” Jack whispers, not wanting to startle him, as he places a hand against Mac’s shoulder.

Mac whimpers.

“How long has this been going on?” 

“Not sure,” is the mumbled response. “It hurts.” He gasps. “It hurts Jack.” He erupts from the under the covers, legs pull up close to his core and Jack can feel the painful ripple of muscles beneath his skin. 

“I can’t…” Mac bites his lip as he rides out another round of seizing muscles. “It hurts so bad, Jack. I can’t think.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Jack rubs Mac’s back.

Breakbone fever, a colloquial name for dengue because of the severe joint and muscle pain, which up until now they had managed to keep at bay. Maybe due to the round the clock acetaminophen to keep Mac’s fever down, for the frequent baths and showers easing the pain in his muscles. Jack’s heart breaks. He had allowed himself to think that Mac might escape this illness without the full effects of the characteristic bone pain.

Mac cries out again. His face twisting in distress. Wrenching his torso in one direction, turning his aching legs in the other, searching for relief. His back arches. “I’m sorry, Jack, but it... It hurts.” 

Jack’s heart seizes in his chest. He would give anything to take this pain from Mac. He crawls into the bed, laying down next to him, pulling back in close. Curling Mac’s body around his own. 

“What are you doing?”

“Latch on there,” Jack instructs. “Like a body pillow. Remember when you screwed up your back and you couldn’t lay down without a spasm. Let’s see if this helps like it did last time.” 

Mac folds himself into Jack’s embrace. He writhes for a moment as his body adjusts to this new position tucked under Jack’s arm. 

Jack strokes his back. Applying firm pressure to ease muscle tension. Massaging away the ache. “Easy there, kiddo. Just let me do this. Don’t fight it.” He murmurs, low and comfortable. He feels the way Mac’s head vibrates against his chest as he speaks. 

The tension slowly leeches from Mac’s muscles. He’s a furnace against Jack’s skin, which is a complete role reversal. Usually, when they huddle to stave off hypothermia, the kid is like an ice cube to Jack’s warmth. He doesn’t know which scenario worries him more. 

Jack keeps a steady reassuring mumble with the rhythmic comforting hand on Mac’s back. Maundering through memories of vacations and road trips. Holidays and family gatherings at the ranch. The practical jokes Jack’s played and the way Mac retaliated. Anything to settle Mac’s racing heart. 

The door cracks open. Mac doesn’t stir. To Bozer’s credit, he doesn’t react when he takes in the scene. 

“Do you need anything?”

Jack slowly moves his head, looking over Mac’s blond hair to the nightstand. “Fresh water. With a straw so he doesn’t have to move. And I didn’t check his temperature before we got cuddling, could you?”

Bozer crosses the room. Gently places his hand on Mac’s shoulder and warns him before inserting the thermometer into his ear. “About the same.”

Jack nods.

“I’ll be back. Water. Juice. A straw.” 

Mac murmurs.

“With all the times you’ve saved the world and kept plastic bottles, empty paint cans, and the pieces of broken microwaves from languishing in landfills for an eternity, you can use one little straw. Don’t go all LA on me now, kid.” 

Bozer returns a few minutes later. Moving around to the other side of the bed with the glass of water. “Hey, Mac, can you drink a little of this?” He positions the straw at Mac’s lips and he sucks greedily on the cool liquid.

“Don’t drool on my shirt,” Jack teases. 

Mac finishes half the glass before he pulls away, pressing his face into Jack’s chest. 

“Good boy.” 

After Bozer leaves Jack grows quiet, thinking that Mac has finally drifted off to sleep and not wanting to disturb his slumber. His hands continue their gentle smoothing up and down Mac’s back. 

“Jack?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Will you… would you keep talking? It… it helps.”

“Just try to stop me,” Jack says with a low chuckle then pauses, suddenly after days of keeping up a steady stream of one sided conversation, he feels at a loss for words. 

“Don’t tell me you finally ran out of things to say?” Mac snorts.

“Hush up. I just gotta figure out where to start here. Okay, uh, once upon a time…”

“In a galaxy far, far away?”

“No,” Jack scoffs, grateful that Mac can’t see his frown or racing thoughts. “This story takes place in our galaxy. Just a long time ago. Hundreds of years ago. Thousands…”

“Did dinosaurs roam the earth?”

“Who’s telling this story? You or me?” Jack’s smile belies his annoyed words. “It was sometime after dinosaurs but way, way before man landed on the moon.”

“There’s a lot of time between that,” Mac yawns.

“Good, cause this is kind of a long story. There was a brave knight. Strong and loyal with a shining sword who wore the crest of the kingdom.”

“Knights…” Mac yawns again. “Knights usually do.”

“The crest was a Phoenix, rising from the ashes. Stronger and more powerful than ever before, an emblem of hope for the people because this kingdom had been at war for a millennia.”

“That’s a long time.”

“They had been waiting on a champion to save them. They watched expectantly as knights rose up the ranks, growing in their skills, their swordsmanship. They thought, when this knight arrived that perhaps he would be the one to save them because he was the most skillful fighter, the brawniest, bravest knight that anyone in the Five Eyes… Five Kingdoms had ever seen.”

“Was his name Sir Jack?”

“No,” he scoffs. “It was… Sir Dalton-lot.”

Mac hums.

“He was a handsome knight and the ladies all loved him, but he was focused on his work of being a knight so he didn’t have a lot of time for romance. Not to say that he didn’t fall in love a few times, he was just too busy and the royal ladies didn’t like it when he had to choose between them and his work. But that was okay, because Sir Dalton-lot started to believe the rumors that maybe he would be the one to bring balance to the forc… to the kingdoms. And he trained even harder so that he would be ready when that day came.”

Mac’s breathing deepens, warm pulls and puffs against Jack’s chest.

“But Sir Dalton-lot had a different destiny. It wasn’t to be a hero, but to be a protector, the highest honor in the land, to a great and powerful wizard named Mac-lin.” 

Jack dozed off sometime after the great and powerful wizard Mac-lin discovered that there was a traitor in the midst of the Knights of the Phoenix-table, and charmed a dragon into flying Sir Dalton-lot, Sir Wilt-cival and Lady Riley the Lioness daughter of Diane-evier to safety. 

Jack’s jaw tickles as he wakes. He swipes at it, but the feather soft flutter is back a second later. He opens his eyes and smiles when he sees blond hair. He presses a kiss to the top of his head, smiling at the soft clean scent of the residual baby shampoo in Mac’s hair. 

Mac is still comfortably asleep against his chest, and it takes Jack a moment to realize he doesn’t feel like he’s trapped in that pine box inside the crematorium in New Orleans anymore. He presses the back of his hand to Mac’s forehead and sighs in relief. The fever broke. 

The vice gripping his chest breaks with that realization and a new one takes its place. The countdown begins, a ticking time bomb. But Mac is good with bombs.

He smooths his hand through Mac’s hair and closes his eyes content to lay here however long the kid needs him. He has some deep sleep of his own that he’ll need to catch up on. 

* * *

Mac flops off Jack’s chest to the other side of the bed.

“Hey, kid, how’re you feeling?” Jack says, scooting to sit up.

He gives a confused smile. “Okay?” He blinks. 

Jack brushes his hair back from his forehead. His skin is still cool. “Your fever broke early this morning.”

Mac nods slowly. “Maybe it’s over?” There’s a note of hope in his voice. His brow furrows. “I’m hungry.” His stomach growls as if in agreement and Jack laughs.

Hungry is an understatement. 

Mac is ravenous. 

Jack is tickled.

Bozer beams with delight as Mac attacks his breakfast plate as quickly as he can fill it with eggs, potatoes, and sausage. 

His face is still pale. It’s easy to see that he’s been sick, written in his skin, but his eyes are clear. The lines of pain are gone from around his eyes and mouth. 

“You got a little something right there,” Jack wiggles his finger, pointing to his own upper lip.

Mac wipes his face with a napkin.

“Nah, you didn’t get it.”

He scrubs a little harder, before frowning and rolling his eyes.

Jack laughs. “Might want to take care of… whatever it is you call that fuzz on your face.”

Freshly showered and shaved, Jack tries to pretend that he didn’t hover outside the bathroom door the whole time, just in case, Mac drowses on the couch. 

Jack, Bozer, and even Riley when she stops by mid-morning, keep finding reasons to walk through the living room. And since they’re heading in that direction anyway, their hands find their way against Mac’s cool forehead, and sigh in sustained relief each time. 

“I’m fine,” Mac mumbles when Jack’s hand rests on his forehead for the third time in an hour. “You didn’t even check my temperature this often when I was sick.”

“Probably should have been checking it more often. I’ll remember that for next time. I'm not letting your fever spike sneak up on me."

"Maybe I won't have one. Sometimes people jump right to the recovery phase."

Jack knocks on wood when Mac says those words aloud.

Mac tinkers before lunch. Long fingers twisting bits of metal, winding cogs and setting springs. He’s still reclined, his tools laying across his stomach. One leg planted on the floor, sweatpant leg rucked up and his foot bare. And it looks almost normal. Like a lazy Saturday morning after an exhausting mission.

But Jack can’t relax. Dr. McClain’s words ring in his ears. That this is the most dangerous time. Some lucky people jump right into the recovery phase, but some patients enter the critical phase sometime in the next forty-eight hours. Plummeting vital signs. Bleeding. Respiratory arrest. Fevers spiking again. 

It doesn’t seem fair. Mac looks fine. He looks, well not healthy, but not the sickly, pain-filled waif that haunted the house over the last few days. Surely, after everything he’s been through in the last several days, he’s on his way to recovery. Mac shouldn’t look this well and still be sick. 

Mac will just have to put up with his hovering a little while longer. If they can make it through the next two days without problems, they can put this nightmare behind them.

He's still fatigued. Sleeping most of the morning between bursts of energy, and everyone waits with bated breath.

That doesn't stop him from getting antsy, cooped up in the house, suggesting they take their lunch onto the deck. Three pairs of worried brown eyes look over at him. They move into the kitchen, huddling up and talking in soft whispers. Raising their heads from their circle and looking at him before ducking back into the conversation weighing the pros and cons, the risks and benefits. Are they setting a bad precedent or will granting Mac some increased freedom ease his chafing under their concerned gazes. 

The quorum deigns to grant Mac’s request. He’s not allowed to carry anything, even his glass or his silverware. 

Jack pours him a cup of juice while Bozer dishes up his meal.

“Do you want to cut up my food too?” Mac rolls his eyes at the attention, but he has to admit that the excursion fatigued him. After lunch is cleaned up, which he’s not allowed to help with, Bozer and Jack join him on the couch for a movie he mostly sleeps through. 

The dawn of the second full day, and Mac is still looking good. He slept well, deep and restful. His appetite hearty, not insatiable like the day before, but Bozer still smiles as he stacks a plate high with his famous waffles, loaded down with toppings. And Jack keeps adding slices of bacon to Mac’s pile. 

In a few short hours, Jack’s usual distraction techniques are stretched thin. Mac is too restive for a guitar lesson and his tinkering doesn’t hold his attention.

Bozer breaks out the checker’s board and issues a challenge. It’s a fast-paced, no-holds-barred, friendship-placed-aside, surprisingly smack-talk-filled game.

“You guys sure take this seriously,” Jack remarks with a concerned frown. 

“This is nothing,” Bozer looks up and laughs at Jack’s worried face. “Remember that summer where we developed triple-level checkers? Now that was some smack talk.”

“I thought your mom was going to wash our mouths out with soap when she heard us.”

The game only lasts about fifteen minutes, until they each have one king remaining and feigning attacks and retreats, until Mac sacrifices his king for the good of their friendship and declines another game.

It takes a lot of effort to keep Mac from tying on his running shoes and hitting the pavement. 

“I won’t go far, just around the block.” 

“Kiddo, the doc said you shouldn’t do anything strenuous right now.”

“But I really do feel good.”

“That’s all part of this, Mac,” Bozer interjects. “Riley sent me some articles. They call this the defervescence phase and you need to be careful.”

“We can head out to the deck for a while. Get some sun, maybe that will improve your mood,” Jack’s hands are on his shoulders guiding him to the door. 

“I don’t need sun. I need to stretch my legs. I’m stiff. My back is still sore. I just want to try to loosen that up,” Mac admits as he sinks into the Adirondack chair near the fire pit, arms folded across his chest. 

Jack keeps up a steady stream of conversation. Mac’s monotone, monosyllabic responses almost has him caving when there’s a commotion at the backdoor. 

Riley, Desi and Leanna smirk as they climb the stairs. 

“Ladies,” Jack raises an eyebrow at them as they dissolve into laughter. “What you got there?”

“A surprise for Mac,” Leanna says sincerely.

“And a treat for us,” Desi adds and laughter erupts again.

“You all are way too pleased with yourselves for me to be anything but terrified,” Jack folds his arms over his chest.

“What kind of surprise?” Mac asks, ignoring Jack’s gestures not to ask questions, and shrugging away when Jack tries to stop him from moving closer to the cats who have very clearly eaten the canaries.

“Mac, don’t encourage them when they’re like this. They’ve been scheming.”

“We were. We had an idea to quell your recalcitrance and maybe help with those sore muscles,” Riley says, unfurling one of the cylinders under her arm, revealing a yoga mat. She laughs again at the dubious expressions aimed in her direction. 

“Come on, Jack,” Desi says after laying out the two mats she was carrying and pulling him from the chair.

“I can’t do an upside down moondoggy,” Jack grumbles. “I’ve seen some of your workouts. I’m going to break my spine if I try to move like that.”

“It’s really good for staying limber and flexible,” she raises her eyebrow at him, pushing him to stand next to the deep purple mat that he eyes with disgust.

“Why does Bozer get out of this?” Jack nudges the mat with his foot. 

“Bozer, get out here,” Leanna calls cheerfully.

“Aw, babe, I’m making lunch. And I’m not really good at--"

“Lisa said you were one of her best students at our aerial yoga class.”

Mac and Jack snicker. 

“Come on Jack, you really going to let me beat you at this too?” Desi challenges. 

"Too? What do you mean ‘too’?"

“I beat your archery score last month,” she shrugs. “And I beat you beat you at skeeball the last time we were at Pizza Paradise.”

“My arm was in a sling!”

“But I was throwing left handed too to keep it fair.”

Jack kicks off his shoes and hops onto the mat. “Oh, it is on, Nyguen.” 

Riley leads them through some basic moves and Mac has to admit the deep stretches and smooth motions loosened the quirks in his muscles. And if he's truthful, it tires him out more than he expected. He wouldn't have even made it on a slow walk around the block. He reluctantly begs out of the impromptu yoga class early, settling on a chair to watch.

Jack tries keeping up with Desi and Riley's nearly elastic joints, it has Mac howling and Bozer tumbling out of Trikonasana and onto his mat, rolling with laughter. 

“Oof. I think I’m going to tear something,” Jack grouses as he tries to deepen his stretch. 

"Just as long as it’s not your pants," Mac chuckles.

“Do you concede, Jack?” Desi asks with a smirk.

“Nope.”

She pushes into a deeper stretch. Jack makes a pained face watching her. “Alright, alright. I give. Mac, Riley, someone help me up.” 

The sunshine, fresh air, and laughter of family eases some of the chafing, and is enough to tucker Mac out. He dozes on the couch, leaning comfortably against Jack most of the afternoon, waking for dinner with the family before drifting off to sleep again before anyone can turn on a movie or suggest a fire.

Jack sighs contentedly with Mac leaning against him. Their forty-eight hours are nearly up. They are nearly in the clear.


	4. Chapter 4

Mac dreams of New Orleans. The crematorium. Fear clawing in his chest. Flames licking the dry tinder of the pine box that holds Jack. The blazes hotter. Sweat trickles down his back. His face burns with the intensity of the fire. Scorched and blistering. 

He gasps awake around midnight. The room feels too hot. Thick and suffocating. Sitting up and truly thinking for a moment that the house caught fire while he slept. A wave of dread crashes over him like a tsunami. The reprieve is over. His fever spiked. 

Cheeks flushed, head pounding. 

And the soft, pliable muscles he’d finally achieved from their yoga party seizing with pain. 

Nausea wracking through him with a vengeance. He stumbles from his bed in a tangle of sheets, crashing to the floor. Gangly limbs uncooperative with his attempts to stand and he crawls into the bathroom, barely making it before he loses the remains of his dinner. 

Painful spasms make him feel like his stomach is trying to turn itself inside out and force itself up his esophagus, choking him. He gasps for breath between each painful squeeze of muscle. 

Choking and coughing. Tears leak from his eyes. 

His arms tremble. He falls against the cool tile floor, unable to support his strength any longer. He shivers at the contact, skin burning. 

“Mac!” Jack’s voice raises in horror. Hands tug at him, and he finds he doesn’t have the energy to care. “Oh my god, Mac, you’re burning up. Bozer. Bozer!” 

Footsteps thud and the light snaps on. Mac shouts at the burst of bright light that causes his head to throb. He presses his hands hard against his eyes and swallows convulsively around another squall of nausea. 

“His fever’s back. Turn on the water. Fill the tub, room temperature,” Jack orders, struggling as he pulls Mac into his arms. 

His cheek rests against the scruff on Jack’s face. His partner’s usual warm body frigid against his skin and he shivers. 

Jack lowers him into the tub, not bothering to waste time undressing him and Mac thrashes the instant his body connects with the tepid water. 

“No, no,” Mac throws his head back, squirming and splashing. “Too cold. No. Please, Jack, no. Too cold.” Wrenching himself from Jack’s grip, he slips against the slick acrylic surface and slides under the water. His limbs flail in panic. 

Strong arms slide under his and he’s lifted above the water, sputtering and snorting in distress.

“Hold him. Bozer, hold him up a second.”

The water splashes again and Jack scoots into the tub behind Mac, laying him to rest against his chest. Mac’s startled panic calms. The steady beat of Jack’s heart, the rise and fall of his chest familiar and soothing. 

Mac’s entire body shudders and his breathing is raspy but he relaxes into Jack’s embrace. 

He hears Bozer’s muffled voice from the other room as Jack splashes the tepid water against his arms and neck. 

“I got you, hoss. Fever’s back. But we’ll get it down,” Jack’s voice cracks.

Mac's eyes burn with tears, streaking across his cheeks. His nose runs and drips with a splat into the water. He reaches up to brush it away. 

His hand comes away red. 

“Jack?”

* * *

Jack speeds. 

His eyes flashing from the road to the rearview mirror angled toward the backseat rather than the cars behind him. A macabre, distorted view to the horror taking place back there. 

He lays on the horn as he shifts lanes. Even the midnight traffic is heavy through LA.

Mac jumps at the sudden sound. Jack wishes he was sitting next to him, but the priority is getting Mac help and not that Bozer hasn’t passed his tactical driver class, but right now they need to play to their strengths. So, Bozer holds Mac upright in the backseat, tissues pressed to his nostrils and applying pressure just under the bridge of his nose and shoving Mac’s hands away, holding his head still when he struggles and trying to keep his voice in the same steady cadence of Jack’s. Offering comfort and reassurance.

Mac throws his head backwards, fighting to dislodge Bozer’s grip. Stuck in the throes of a feverish nightmare. And Jack feels the same.

“Mac, please, hold still,” Bozer begs, grappling with Mac’s limbs.

“Angus! Knock it off,” Jack’s tone brusque and Mac freezes. Eyes wide. Jack catches his gaze in the mirror. “You gotta trust us, Mac. Please.” 

Mac gives a small nod, settling for the moment. Until his mind starts wandering again. 

Squealing into the med bay parking lot, the GTO screeches to a halt. Jack throws open the back door and hauls Mac from the backseat and into his arms, stalking into the building, practically running down the hallway. The tissues fall away from his face until Bozer can match his stride and shove them back into place but it’s enough to make Jack’s breath stutter.

Blood continues bubbling from Mac’s nose, smeared across his face, under his chin. 

Almost eighty percent of those with Dengue fever are asymptomatic. 

Less than five percent experience hemorrhage.

Less than one percent go into hypotensive shock.

Jack thinks Han Solo has the right idea. Never tell him the odds. 

He sets Mac on the table in the exam room.

“Keep pressure on that for another minute Bozer, until I can swap places with you,” Reese instructs, passing him a handful of gauze. She wraps a blood pressure cuff around Mac’s bicep, quickly obtaining his vital signs.

Jack stands at the head of the bed. Wet pajamas still dripping with soft splats onto the floor, the puddle surrounding his feet growing. 

“He’s tachycardic and hypotensive,” Reese relays, pushing aside Mac’s t-shirt, listening to his chest and abdomen then palpating. “No distension, normo-active bowel sounds. Lungs are diminished.”

“Mac, can you hear me?” McClain asks, peeling back Mac’s eyelids.

“He’s been confused since I found him,” Jack says quietly. “He woke up puking.”

“Did you see any blood in his vomit or anything that looked like coffee grounds?”

“Nah. I didn’t look real close though. His fever was so high that I threw him in the tub. He was fighting us.”

Mac flails, flinging himself, away from the prying hands and onto his back. He chokes and sputters as blood pours down his throat. Eyes widening in terror as he coughs.

McClain grabs his shoulder, hauling him upright. “Jack, slide in behind him. Keep him sitting up so he doesn’t aspirate his own blood.” 

Jack swallows hard as he follows the order, shimmying in against Mac’s back. His arms wrapped around Mac’s chest, holding him steady as he tries to buck off the medical care, or whoever’s hands are tormenting him in his hallucination. Murmuring gentle reassuring into Mac’s ear, and dodging Mac’s head when he swings it.

Reese pulls off sopping socks, tossing them in the corner, and examining Mac’s feet. “Pedal pulses are thready. Capillary refill time is sluggish. He’s got plus two pitting edema in his feet and ankles. It doesn’t extend to the pretibial area.” 

“Bozer, I’m going to switch places with you,” McClain says, patting one gloved hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “On three.” He smoothly transitions into place, tipping Mac’s head back enough that he can examine his nasal passages. “How long has this been bleeding?”

“At least thirty minutes,” Bozer responds. 

“Reese, hand me a rocket. If the pressure doesn’t take care of it we might have to cauterize the capillaries.” McClains explains what he’s doing, telling Mac that he’s going to feel some pressure. 

Mac yells in confused distress as the rhino rocket is placed in his nose to staunch the bleed. He huffs and sputters then slowly relaxes.

Reese waits until he settles before cycling another blood pressure. McClain frowns when he sees the number. 

“Damn,” McClain pulls off his gloves and tosses them with a frustrated sigh. “Alright. Give him two units of fresh frozen plasma. Run it slow and see how he responds. I don’t want to fluid overload him but hopefully, that will stop the bleeding and replace some of the circulating volume. And get a stat H&H and abdominal ultrasound. I want to make sure he’s not bleeding anywhere else and see if he needs a transfusion.”

Jack runs his hands through Mac’s hair, distracting him as Reese draws blood and starts an IV. Then drapes a cooling blanket over him. “Are you alright back there, Jack?” She asks. 

“Fine,” his tone is clipped. His concerned brown eyes meet her blue ones. “I’m not moving.”

Reese nods, tucking a blanket around his shoulders and toweling dry his hair. His fauxhawk laying flat against his head when she’s done. “I won’t ask you to leave. At least not for now. But I need you to be honest with me about your needs. Just like you’d expect from Mac, only you try following those directions a little better, alright?”

Jack tightens his arms around Mac’s chest, pulling him closer. “Deal.” 

* * *

Blood drips. Soaking through the rhino rocket, running down his lip. Mac coughs and spits defiantly. His eyes bright with fever, glazed with hallucinations. The medical equipment is seen as torture devices in his nightmares.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” McClain announces. 

Jack knew this was coming. The pressure and the plasma weren’t enough. 

“We can’t risk him moving during the procedure.”

He helps slide Mac’s arms through the sleeves of a vest, zipping up the back. Attaching the clips to the bed, but not pulling them tight. Not until they’re ready. It’s not the first time Jack’s had to trick or wrestle his partner into medical restraints. That doesn’t make it any easier especially since the kid is surprisingly compliant with Jack. Or maybe not so surprising. He feels like he’s taking advantage of Mac’s trust. 

They work in tandem, preparing the soft wrist and ankle restraints. Jack hopes when this is all over Mac will forgive him. Jack hopes he’ll be able to forgive himself. That Mac’s panicked yells when they slip the cuffs around his wrists and tighten the bonds will one day fade from his memory. The terrified struggles followed by the quiet, desperate tears won’t fill his nightmares forever. 

Jack has to hold his head still. They use a c-collar to help inhibit his movement, but despite the fever, Mac is strong. They can’t risk him fighting them, moving during the procedure and he’s too unstable to be sedated right now. 

McClain assures him that they used a hefty dose of a numbing agent so Jack has to hope that it’s just fear, not pain causing the tears leaking from Mac’s eyes. They fall from Jack’s too. Arms wrapped around Mac’s head, holding him almost in a vice and whispering, begging Mac to hear him.

“You’re safe. I promise you’re safe. I promise you're safe, Mac. I’m sorry, but you’re sick. You’re so sick, buddy and we’re trying to help. I know you’re scared, but I’m right here. You don’t have to be scared. I’m not leaving.” 

The scent of burning flesh awakens an old nightmare. 

An op gone wrong. Forced to watch as Mac’s shirt was torn away. Held down by rough hands. Strapped down. Blue eyes defiant. The searing metal pressed against his flesh. The sizzle and stench of burning flesh. Nickel-sized burns branded in his skin. Jack screaming at them to stop. 

And now he’s forcing Mac to relive it as they burn the tiny capillaries in his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. 

Mac’s eyes are huge, unseeing. Pupils dilated til there is only a tiny ring of blue surrounding them. Jack can feel Mac’s pulse racing beneath his touch. 

He doesn’t know how long it took, McClain said less than ten minutes, but it takes Mac at least twice that to settle down again. 

“You’re safe. You’re safe,” Jack continues to whisper until he finally settles. His sleep punctuated with breathless huffs left over from his sobs. 

Jack excuses himself. Leaving Bozer and Riley in the room with explicit instructions to call him, find him, start a damn signal fire if Mac in any way needs him. 

His steps are steady as he walks down the hall to the bathroom. Pushing open the door he checks the room, making sure he’s the only one in there, then flips the lock. Leaning heavily against the door, the sobs he was barely containing rip through his chest. His knees buckle and he slides to the floor. 

He cries.

Wracking sobs. 

He’s so damn scared. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He shoves his hands into his hair, taking deep shuddering breaths. Mac’s blood on his hands. Streaked across his neck. Staining his favorite Rolling Stones t-shirt. The one with the holes around the collar that Riley keeps stealing and bringing back. 

Standing slowly, he stumbles to the sink, turning the water on as hot as he can stand it and he scrubs his hands. Between his fingers. Under his nails and around his cuticles. He splashes water on his face, a clump of blood in his beard, using a paper towel to help work the clot from his hair. 

There’s a tap on the door and Jack sprints to open it.

“Mac?” 

“No,” Bozer holds up his hands, preventing Jack’s panic from starting anew. “Still sleeping. I got a change of clothes from your locker.” Bozer holds out his sixth favorite AC/DC shirt and a soft pair of joggers. 

“Thanks, Boze,” Jack’s voice cracks. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I cleaned up when they were getting him settled,” Bozer says. “Maybe I’ll take the GTO to get detailed tomorrow, the back seat is…”

“Looks like a crime scene.”

“Yeah,” Bozer runs a hand through his hair.

Jack sniffs. Eyes growing redder again. “I’d almost be easier if it was. Then there’d be something for me to do. Someone to blame. How am I supposed to take on a damn virus and the whole mosquito population?”

Bozer chokes out a laugh, before opening his arms wide and pulling Jack in for a hug. Jack breathes deeply, accepting the comfort that usually he’s dishing out. He squeezes Bozer a little tighter then let go. 

“You sure you’re good?” Bozer asks, taking a step back and watching Jack’s face. 

He coughs and rubs reddened eyes. “Yeah.”

“Cause I got more hugs if you need ‘em.”

Jack chuckles. “Thanks, Bozer.”

“Hey, don’t mention it. I got you, buddy. Mac and Riley, they lead with their heads, but you and me?” Bozer taps his chest. “We lead with our hearts and when our people are hurting we can’t breathe. Sometimes the only thing that helps is a hug. A great big emotional Heimlich.”

“Did you know the wife of the Heimlich maneuver doesn’t want you to call it that? I don’t remember why.” 

“Now that sounds like a Mac-fact,” Bozer says, leading him down the hall back to Mac’s room.

“Pretty sure it was,” Jack smiles. “And he says I don’t listen to him when he Mac-splains.”

“Well, you don’t know the second half of the story, so an argument could be made...”

"Nah, it’s the context. It wasn’t about the Heimlich. It was this German scientist waterboarding us named Henrich. I was pissing him off by getting his name wrong, keep the attention on me, and Mac was trying to distract me from the pneumonia brewing in his lungs.” Jack looks up in concern as they reach Mac’s room. “Riley? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you with him?” The door firmly shut.

“I stepped out to give him some privacy,” Riley says holding up a hand to stall Jack. “They were going to clean him up and place a catheter. They need to keep a close watch on his output and want to make sure he’s not bleeding in his kidneys.” 

It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for the door to open again but it’s too long in Jack’s opinion and he’s at Mac’s side in the space between heart beats. 

Mac also gained a new IV bag on his pole while Jack was gone. Lactated Ringer’s to help his blood pressure and shift the fluid back into his bloodstream and an arterial line for constant blood pressure monitoring. Also preventing additional pokes, they can draw blood from the cannula.

He’s quiet now. It’s such a difference from the eye-rolling, captured-stallion distress from before, that it gives Jack emotional whiplash. He doesn’t want to see that frenzied fear. Is so relieved that he’s calm, resting, but it makes Jack’s leg bounce with fretfulness. 

Jack’s usually not one to give in to nervous energy, but he’s shifting in his seat like he’s four hours and eight cups of coffee into a stakeout. 

He focuses on Mac’s face. On the gentle rise and fall of his chest, matching him breath for breath. Falling into his sniper training. Contrary to popular belief he can keep his mouth shut. He reaches for Mac’s wrist, wrapping his hand around it, gripping it loosely and keeping his fingers against Mac’s pulse. 

Then he allows his eyes to grow heavy. Rhythmic breathing soothing, hypnotizing. And he drifts. 

It’s a few hours later when he wakes. 

His heart clenches when he notices the oxygen mask covering the lower half of Mac’s face. One of the nurses added it to Mac’s collection of medical paraphernalia while he slept. There’s a congested wheeze from his chest. He coughs beneath the mask. Humidification bubbles on the wall, keeping Mac’s nasal passages from drying out and potentially inducing another nose bleed, despite the cauterization. 

Jack strokes his thumb across Mac’s knuckles, whispering soft, nothing words, easing his distress. Preventing Mac from reaching for the mask. He never liked having anything over his face. 

The medical staff stream steadily through the room. Checking Mac’s vital signs and lungs. Turning him, tucking pillows under him and repositioning. Replacing cooling blankets and ice packs. 

When Jack isn’t studying Mac’s flushed face, his gaze is drawn to the monitor, constantly reading his blood pressure, heart rate, and core temperature. 

“You gotta stop doing stuff like this, kid.” He watches Mac’s face, waiting for a response he doesn’t receive. 

Bozer stirs on the couch. He sits up quickly when he realizes where he is. “I fell asleep,” he mumbles in surprise. 

“Ya needed it. I fell asleep too,” Jack offers in consolation, glad that Bozer had been able to relax enough to fall asleep. He took on the brunt of the cooking over the last several days. Never complaining, always planning and prepping and cooking chickens. Jack smiles. It’s one of the ways Bozer shows he cares. Food is his love language, whether that’s making homemade chicken soup or making runs to the cafeteria for terrible coffee. 

Bozer frowns reading the numbers on the monitor. “He’s not doing well.”

Jack looks at the worried face of Mac’s oldest friend. Features pensive and pinched. Eyes studiously taking in the numbers flashing on the screen. 

“He’ll be okay.” 

_Please be okay._

His blood pressure continues to drop. 

And his chest rattles as the fluid shifts into his pleural space. His breathing labored and shallow. Fearful eyes pop open with startled gasps. He mumbles mostly unintelligible words, but Jack hears his name. The cries for help. 

The bed is raised to ease Mac’s breathing. He pushes his head against his pillow, arching his back in distress. Jack bathes his face and neck with cool water. 

Bozer coaxes Mac to take in some water. Some juice. Anything. His lips are chapped and cracked. Pulling and bleeding when he tries to talk. His eyes red and sunken. 

“Jack, you need to go. Save yourself,” Mac murmurs. Head tossing. Eyes scanning. Threats that only he can see. He pushes at Jack’s chest. 

“I’m fine, kiddo. We’re safe. You’re just sick.”

He murmurs equations, rattling off elements. “I could melt some potassium sulfate. What? No, no. I can’t… I can’t think.” He throws his arm out in frustration.

“Is this an old mission?” Bozer asks. “Do you remember it? Maybe if you can talk him through it, tell him what he does next?”

Jack shakes his head helplessly, scrubbing a hand across his beard. “If it is, it’s not one that I remember.”

“Bozer? What are you doing here? Jack, why is he here? He can’t know… gotta protect him. Can’t let him…” 

They exchange a worried glance. Jack vacates the chair and lets Bozer take his seat next to Mac.

“Hey, Mac, buddy,” Bozer reaches out. “It’s all good.”

“He’ll be angry with me for lying to him.”

“No, no, I won’t. I mean, yeah, I was for a little bit, but that’s all in the past. I know why you did it. I understand it better now than I did then.”

“Jack, what if I lose him? I can’t lose Bozer because of this. He was my first friend. My only…”

“Mac, it’s me. You aren’t gonna lose me. Remember what I said? How can you be mad at a puppy? Especially one that looks as sick as you do. You just gotta get better.”

“Bozer?” Mac’s eyes open, staring blearily. 

“Yeah, man, it’s me. Are you with me?”

Mac licks his chapped lips. Bozer offers him water which he gratefully accepts. Sucking furiously on the straw.

“Not too fast, buddy,” Bozer pulls back the cup and Mac whines. “You can have more in a second. Just don’t want you getting sick.” 

“I’m sorry, Boze,” Mac mumbles.

“Nothing to be sorry about. Except if you want to be sorry for scaring us, but that’s not even your fault.”

“Should have told you…” Mac’s eyes rove the room, darting across the medical equipment before landing on his friend again. “Bozer? Why are you here? It’s not safe…”

The moment of clarity vanished. Mac lost again in some twisted version of memories and nightmares. Bozer accepts a cool cloth from Jack, wiping down Mac’s face again. 

They take turns sitting next to Mac, offering reassurances that he’s safe. Pacing to release nervous pent up energy, and napping fitfully on the plastic covered couch under the window. 

Mac pants. “It’s so hot.”

“I know, kiddo. Just rest.”

“I can’t.” 

“Sure you can, we made it home, bud,” Jack assures, hoping that it’s enough. 

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” 

A tear drips from Mac’s eye. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no, don’t say that. Didn’t you hear me? You’re safe. You got everybody at Phoenix Med working round the clock to help ya. Riley and Bozer are here with you, too. You inspire a lot of loyalty, kiddo.” 

“You’ll take care of them?”

“Always do,” Jack promises. “But right now, we’re all taking care of you.”

“I can’t save them, Jack.” 

“Only person you need to save right now, Mac, is yourself.” 

“I don’t want to go.” 

On Mac’s other side, Riley sniffs. Tears fill her eyes at the words. She wraps her arm around him, sliding her hand to his chest, stroking it gently and resting her cheek on his shoulder.

“No, Mac, you’re not going anywhere. Not yet. Not for a long time.” Jack tightens his hold on Mac’s hand. “I’m not ready for that.” 

“I’m scared, Jack. It’s dark.”

Jack cups Mac’s face. “I’m right here, Mac. I’m right here. I know you’re scared, but we’re right here with you, hoss.”

Mac shuffles. Turning against the twisted sheets. Crying out in discomfort as pain rips through his muscles. Reaching for the oxygen mask and his nose. For the arterial line and the catheter, and they worry he’ll try tearing them out in his agitation. He tosses aside the ice packs and thrashes in the throes of fever and pain. 

With help from the nursing staff, Jack crawls into the narrow hospital bed, arranging Mac’s limbs and lines so they won’t pull. Placing Mac’s arm on his chest and holding it loosely. Trying to find the same comfort that he was able to offer a few days ago, the night before Mac’s fever broke. 

He’s restless, pushing away from Jack, then clinging on close. Riley and Bozer take turns rubbing Mac’s back, easing the ache. 

Jack watches the flashing numbers on the monitor. His fever slowly spiking higher despite their cooling measures. Beads of sweat erupt on his forehead. Jack shivers under the cooling blanket and the places where Mac’s ice packs touch his skin. 

He needs a blood transfusion on top of the plasma and the fluid bolus. They’re worried that the fluid will overload him. His lungs already sound wet. 

Jack watches the blood-filled tube run into Mac’s arm. 

“Please don’t go,” Mac pants. “I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me.” 

His blonde hair is dark with sweat. He wheezes. His eyes wandering the room, wide with fear. There’s little liquid to spare for tears, but his shoulders shake with silent, dry cries. 

“I don’t… I don’t want to be alone.” 

Jack pulls him closer, Mac’s head resting on his chest.

“Please,” Mac whispers. 

Riley gasps, leaning forward in her chair, snug against Mac’s back. Wrapping herself around Mac’s shoulder, pressing her mouth against it to stifle the tears filling her eyes and the sob that wants to escape her throat. 

Jack hears Bozer shuffle up next to him, somehow wedging himself to sit on the edge of the bed so he can see Mac’s face. 

“We’re here, Mac,” Bozer whispers. “We’re here. Me, Riley, Jack. You don’t have to… to be…” he swallows hard. “You don’t have to be scared, buddy. You aren’t alone.” 

Taking turns whispering words of comfort, letting Mac know that he’s not alone. He will always have his family.

Jack jostles Mac higher onto his chest. 

“One day a powerful curse befell the wizard Mac-lin. A sorcerer banished him with evil magic into a cavern of fears and nightmares, and he couldn't find his way home.This curse was like a shackle on his magic and he couldn’t even conjure up a candle to give him comfort. He was scared. Far away from his family, the knights and knightesses that he swore to protect, and swore to protect him. He worried that he would never see them again.”

Jack takes a tremulous breath, holding Mac tighter as he shivers. 

“He thought he was alone, that he had been abandoned despite the vows of his friends that they would never leave him. The darkness made him forget their promises that he would never have to be alone again. That he would always have Sir Dalton-lot, Sir Wilt-cival, Lady Riley the Lioness, Desi the Huntress, and Matty the Dragonlord.”

“I thought Merlin was a Dragonlord?” Riley murmurs, stroking Mac’s arm.

“Have you not been paying attention? This story isn’t about Merlin, it’s about Mac-lin, the greatest, most powerful wizard ever. Try to keep up, Ri.”

Bozer laughs wetly. 

“In the dark, cavernous cave…”

“Cavernous cave?”

“Seriously, Bozer? Do none of you kids know how to listen to a bedtime story?” Jack smiles as the kids keep interrupting him, their voices, the normalcy, letting Mac know that they’re here and they’re not leaving him. 

“When all hope seemed lost, there was a skitter of rocks across the cave floor. And Mac-lin was sure that it was a tribe of slee-worg-orcs was coming to finish him off.”

“Okay, I got the worgs and the orcs but what’s a slee?” Bozer frowns.

“It’s a sleestak!” Riley exclaims. “Jack and I used to watch Land of the Lost together. They showed reruns super early on Saturday mornings. I was terrified of those things.” 

“Mac-lin was terrified too. He was in the dark and he couldn't use his magic. There was nothing he could do. He was scared. And sad. He had made a promise years ago with Sir Dalton-lot. They would go down together, fighting. You go kaboom, I go kaboom. And he thought Sir Dalton-lot forgot about that promise. But little did he know, even though after all this time he should have known, that his family wouldn’t leave him behind.”

Bozer squeezes Mac’s hand and Riley rubs his back.

“He thought they’d never be able to find him, because the cave was a maze, meant to confuse and terrify anyone unlucky enough to be there. And one had to fight with their nightmares and deepest fears. No one who went in ever came out. But he forgot the gifts that he had given his family over the years. The swords that glowed in the darkness, giving light when it was needed most. Enchanted maps and compasses to guide their steps and lead them home so they would never be lost again.”

"They called for him and he thought it was a trick. A trap, but they found him, and they weren't letting go. He had to trust them to lead him out of the cave and that wasn't easy for him. He was used to making his own way. He had been abandoned many times in his life. But their hands and voices reassured him that he wasn’t alone. He would never be alone. And they would never let him go.” 

Jack brushes a kiss to Mac’s warm temple. “You hear that, Mac. We’ll never let you go.”

* * *

Jack wakes and tries to refrain from stretching, though his body protests the hours spent in this same position. Sometime in the last few hours, Bozer pulled a chair closer, probably so he wouldn’t tumble off the edge of the bed. But his head still shares the pillow with Jack, his arm and shoulder resting across his chest and holding onto Mac. 

Riley’s back is gonna kill her when she wakes up. She too is in a chair, curled protectively around Mac, head resting on his shoulder. He doesn’t know how either of them managed to fall asleep like this, and since he’s probably the most comfortable out of all of them, despite, or maybe because all his kids are leaning against him, he’s not going to disturb their rest for something selfish like easing cramping muscles.

This is nothing, one time he hid, curled up in a shipping container with his knees up by his ears for days. Okay, a day. Half of one. A really long morning, but still. 

He doesn’t feel the stifling heat from Mac anymore. He looks down quickly and sees two blue eyes staring sleepily at him. They look clear, no longer burning bright with fever and fear. 

Mac smiles shyly when he notices he’s been caught. “Hey,” he rasps.

“Hey, yourself,” Jack swallows a lump forming in his throat. “When did you wake up?”

“A little bit ago,” he glances over his shoulder and then smiles at Bozer. “I can’t move.”

“Yeah, it’s a little bit like having a whole litter of puppies laying on you. Moving is illegal.” Small twitches of his arms cause Riley to snuffle in her sleep so he freezes mid-motion. His head he can move though and he tucks his cheek against Mac’s forehead. 

“Are you taking my temperature?” Mac asks, his voice muffled against Jack’s chest.

Jack smiles. It feels like so much longer than just a couple of days ago that he was doing this same thing in Mac’s kitchen. “Just getting in a comforting hug, and if it has the added benefit of letting me check you over well… besides, now that you’re feeling better you probably won’t let me dog pile with you on the couch as often. And that’s fine. I’d rather you be healthy than sick enough to let me hold ya, but I’m gonna miss this.”

“Well didn’t the doc say that the recovery phase can take a couple of weeks? I probably won’t feel up to fighting you about this for a while yet,” Mac says slowly.

Jack hums and tries to keep the smile on his face from growing wider. “Guess I’ll have to take advantage of that while I can then."

Mac’s smile is broken by a yawn. He presses his face firmly against Jack’s chest and then relaxes with a sigh. “Yeah, I guess so. 

“Get some rest, hoss. We’ll all be here when you wake up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey,thanks for sticking with me through this! It was a surprisingly frustrating story to write from a medical whump standpoint. It felt like every bit of research contradicted itself (ie Do not give blood, unless you have to give blood. It might help or it might kill then deader? Good luck... over and over again with _everything_ I thought might possibly work) so anything that doesn't make sense, well, I was tearing my hair out trying to make sense of it too. 
> 
> The "hug as an emotional Heimlich" bit was from Pushing Daisies.
> 
> Anyway, thanks again for reading! Happy Cairo Day Five!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(febrile) + persistence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27712075) by [impossiblepluto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto)




End file.
